Friday, February 8, 2013

Lost (And Found) In Translation

I.

The coconuts are swaying, just slightly, to the south indicating that the internet may once again be up and running. Figure I better use the occasion to get a bit of writing up before the winds turn direction and the worldwide web is left to fend for itself like everything else on a 500 ft wide motu located deep in the Pacific Ocean. Well, everything not associated with the St. Regis anyway. The only thing us folks at the St. Regis have to fend off for ourselves, it seems, is sunburn.

II.

En route to Tahiti, and more specifically to Bora Bora, one is reminded that to be in the middle of the Pacific Ocean is to be in the middle of nowhere.

I suppose that's why we come here- to get away, to slow down, to effectively become the sea cucumber who's done nothing but lay on the lagoon floor for the past ten thousand years while the world goes on around her.

We soon learned we had slightly more going on than the sea cucumber and upon arrival, found ourselves promptly at the hotel bar. The sun was ready for us, but our room was not. To help, the St. Regis offered to buy us a drink. To help with what exactly, I wasn't sure. Although we had just gotten off our third airplane, and had flown overnight "alongside of" (I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't through) a massive storm over the Pacific that caused our flight to be, um, quite turbulent for four and a half hours, we were now in paradise, our Shangri La, and would be for the next two and a half weeks. Help? Who needed help?

Clearly us, thought the server as he brought the drink menu over straightaway. His was the fastest movement that would be observed for the next quarter hour. Finally, after watching Kimi stare with glazed eyes at the menu, out to the lagoon, and back to the menu again, I asked if she wouldn't mind making a drink decision sometime soon. After all, sea levels are rising and we're on a motu that is no more than two feet above sea level. We don't have all day.

"I'm thinking," she responded.

"Thinking?" I asked. "Didn't we come here to leave that kind of nonsense behind?"

"Yes, but I'm thinking. I'm thinking, do I want vodka, gin, or maybe some rum?"

Ah, yes. These decisions take time, but please, do hurry. I think the lagoon just lapped at my toes.

III.

We settle into life on the motu. Time and clouds pass. Magazines are read; destinies pondered. "I wish I could stop eating the bacon with breakfast," I mumble. My big challenge of the day.

IV.

Upon learning our stay at the St. Regis would include two complimentary massages at the uber-chic spa with private pools and beaches for each guest, we handle ourselves with exquisite composure and refinement reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. "Huh?" we sputter. "What?"

Well, I'll be darned if it isn't true. The lovely staff member who delivered this news stated that the St. Regis would like to relieve us of our daily routine when we are ready.

Well, thank you very much, I think. The daily routine of Oprah magazines, afternoon cocktails, and floating in the lagoon certainly does require a bit of relief, and I appreciate you recognizing this.

V.

The staff at the St. Regis must be the most friendly, helpful, and professional staff in all of the South Pacific, and I'm not just saying that because of the free drinks and massages. The employees are detailed and conscientious, often considering the needs of their guests before said guests even realize a need exists. It's that kind of place.

So, when our server at dinner the other night, a slight Asian man born in the South of France, asked if we wanted any advice, I didn't hesitate.

"Yes, please. About what?" I asked. I would not miss this opportunity.

"Region, varietal, vintage....," he responded. I was confused.

Then, Kimi flashed the wine list she was holding letting me know he wasn't offering to teach me the path to inner peace or how to find my true passions in life. Wow, I thought. I need to lay off the Oprah magazines.

So, life continues on this funny little motu. Each day, the wind blows across the lagoon, whispering, "This is the life, this is the life, this is the life." As if I need a reminder. Or relief.